


A Bard To The Rescue

by AnneTaylor



Series: When Wolves Fall [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22675714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneTaylor/pseuds/AnneTaylor
Summary: Geralt has been taken by a witch. Dragged under the earth. Jaskier thinks it's Yennefer's fault, and he doesn't know anyone who can help him but Borch. He's not sure if he's going in the right direction, but Roach seems to think she knows where she is going.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: When Wolves Fall [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621207
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	1. On The Road to the Dragon Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> Tags are hard for this series. I'm going to call this section of the story M/M, because it's from Jaskier's POV and we all know what is in his heart.

As they got closer to the Dragon Mountains, Roach picked up her pace. She had been sullen and disagreeable the entire trip, prone to whipping her head back at unexpected moments and nipping Jaskier, just to express her disapproval that he was not Geralt. His left knee and lower leg were splotched with purple.

It was fortunate that Jaskier had coaxed from Geralt some of the details of their upcoming journey, otherwise he would have been completely floundering. When he stopped for the night at a small town by the name of Diggle, the boy who offered to take care of Roach for four ducats immediately recognized her. _I'm on the right track, he thought excitedly._ Maybe they would remember where Geralt had planned to go.

The man behind the counter was a piggish fellow, with a forced joviality that said I-don't-really-give-a-shit-about-anything-but-your-money. He took Jaskier's coin and told him if he was going to sing for his supper he'd be charged a "sitting fee". Small wonder the place was so dour, Jaskier observed. Most bards would be insulted. Well, he was, but he was more interested in getting news of Geralt's passing than in indulging his pride.

He sat and drank until the room was half filled, then pulled out his lute and began tuning.

"Hey, you, are you a bard?" A young man in stained trousers and blouse stood over him. He smelled of sheep and sweat.

"I am indeed, my fine fellow. I am Jaskier, humble wandering bard, at your service. Are you and your fellow patrons desirous of entertainment this evening?"

"Fuck, yes." A wide grin split the young man's homely face, rendering it, for an instant, almost handsome. He fished in his pockets and pulled out a couple of coins. "Just sold a big lot at Lan Exetor so I'm ripe. Here. Sing something...cheerful, will you? Something about love."

One of the fellows at another table gave out a rude cat-call, the man next to him slugged him. A good-natured scuffle ensued, during which Jaskier launched into the ballad of Zerd and Aldora, two star crossed lovers who were brought together by destiny and the cross-dressing antics of their respective best friends, who eventually ended up making the wedding a double. By the time he had finished, everyone seemed to have settled and the inn's common room was nearly full.

One more to warm them up, he thought. He played an amusing little ditty about the perils of getting on the wrong side of your wife, a song guaranteed to challenge the manhood of every married man in the place and sure enough, when he'd finished one of the patrons was loudly demanding a "song about a REAL man..."

He launched into the Ballad of the White Wolf. As usual, he was plied with drinks and tossed a few coins for that one. He followed up with a ribald tune about the man who loved his sheep so much that he couldn't bear to shave their gleaming locks; his homely friend received a number of rib thumps after that one. Next, Throw A Coin To Your Witcher, and several more popular ditties, following up with a tragic tale of a man who dies for his lord's honor. "Voice is 'bout done, lads," he apologized to them.

"Awwww...don't leave us like this, bard," the young sheepherder protested. Tears glistened in his eyes.

"One more, then." He gave them a tune which posed a question; was it better to stay silent when a wrong was done and protect your own, or do the right thing and risk losing everything? Jaskier had found that ending up with a song like that was a great way to get conversations going, and he wanted people circulating while he soothed his dry throat.

After a few moments, the young sheepherder came to his table, two full mugs of ale in his large fists. He set one down in front of Jaskier and pulled up a chair.

"What's your name?" Jaskier asked him.

"Adrien. You wrote those songs, didn't you? The ones about the Witcher?"

 _Aha. My arrows have struck their target._ "I did indeed. Did you enjoy them?"

Adrien ducked his head shyly. "Loved them. He came here, you know." His face fell. "I was at sheering and I missed it. The White Wolf, at our town. That fat ne'er-do-well, Rodget, tried to make him sleep in the barn, but the Witcher had a woman with him and she was pissed and she made a mug of ale explode." His eyes were shining. “Byronna, she owns the inn, was pretty pissed with Rodget. If he wasn't kin she'd have sacked him long ago."

A pissed woman who made a mug of ale explode. He could guess who that might be. And it sounded like quite a dramatic scene. Worthy of a song. He teased a few more of the details of the incident out of Adrien, and then asked, casually "Do you know where the Witcher went when he left here?"

Adrien shook his head. "Wasn't here."

"Do you think you could find out for me? I think the incident would make a wonderful song, I should like to immortalize it, and I would certainly mention the name of your town in the refrain. I need all the details, though."

"A song? About Diggle? Scrog's balls, yes, that'd be the best thing ever happened in this slop trough. Most people don’t even know the town has a name. Wait, I'll find out who was here."

In short order Jaskier's table was surrounded. He got a number of details, many of which he was quite certain were exaggerated to the point of being ridiculous, but which he could certainly excuse under poetic license. There was a woman who introduced herself as the aforementioned Byronna, the inn owner, who gave him a number of salacious details about the Witcher's bulging muscles, including those of his nether regions, and the beautiful, disheveled woman who he had brought in, as well as everything she had supposedly heard during the night, being in the room directly adjoining the Witcher's room. Coincidentally.

They were not details Jaskier particularly wanted to hear. Normally, he was all for salacious, but the details about what went on between Geralt and the sorceress were still too raw a wound, all things considered. He did manage to find out that the next morning, Geralt and Yennefer had purchased supplies for an extended outdoor stay and headed off into the swamp. Adrien offered to show him the way in the morning, although he thought the bard "bat shit crazy" to even think about going in there.

"Nobody goes through there. There's things in that swamp would shrivel your manhood away to nothing. Succubae and the like. Nothing up there, anyway."

Succubae in a swamp? Not likely. They tended to hunt in towns. "Well, since a Witcher has gone through recently I imagine he's got it all cleared out for a while, so I'll take my window of opportunity while I may."

"Suit yourself," Adrien shrugged, though there was a slight gleam of admiration in the young man's eyes as he left Jaskier and went back to join his friends. They spent the evening talking excitedly and occasionally glancing over at Jaskier.

 _I hope they aren't planning anything stupid_ , Jaskier thought, as he scooped his last few coins into his well filled pouch and headed up to his room.

In the morning, a crowd of five young men were waiting to escort him into the swamp. One of them had a sword without a sheath. It was slightly rusted and barely looked to have an edge. Two more had pitchforks. The others had brought a pair of finely tooled daggers and crossbows slung over their shoulders.

"Err...I hope you gentlemen haven't come to remonstrate with me over the quality of the songs I sang last night. I was embarrassingly drunk, I'm afraid."

One of the boys guffawed. "Sounded fine t' me."

"We're going to see you through the swamp," Adrien declared. "You're the White Wolf's bard. You're going to write a song about us, right?"

"Absolutely! I'm halfway done with the refrain already. But an escort is not necessary. Roach is a fine, swift animal and she will carry me away from any danger."

If Jaskier had hoped to subtly remind them that he would be mounted and they afoot, the point sailed right over their enthusiastic heads. _Ah, well, they'll get bored before too long and turn back_ , he hoped. And they would be a welcome diversion.

What is the damned witch doing to Geralt right now?

Ah, Jaskier, you are worrying about nothing. She's just one witch. This is the White Wolf we're talking about. He was swallowed by a Selkiemore, for fuck's sake, and he simply hacked it to bits from the inside and walked away. She's probably in his bed right now, asking him where he got all his scars.

A couple of hours in, the boys' interest was flagging. He'd played them a few bars of the "Battle of the Flaming Mug" and they'd liked it well enough, but even that wasn't enough to offset the dismal creepiness of miles of stinking swamp water. Then they came upon the corpses.

There must have been a hundred of the little monsters. Some were hacked, some were burned. Quite a number were crushed, obviously beneath the hooves of a very large, well shod horse. Not Roach. And in fact, Roach was embarrassingly badly behaved, shying and snorting and stomping and blowing. Adrien had to grab her bridle at one point to prevent her from tossing Jaskier into the mucky water.

"I think Roach would like to be off, gentlemen. As you can see, Geralt has cleared the way for me, as he always does. I'm going to need to move quickly if I'm to clear the swamp before evening, so this is where I must bid you good-bye, I'm afraid."

He took the reins back from Adrien and thanked them for their escort and left them collecting souvenirs as he gave Roach her head.

Roach was foaming and blowing when they finally reached solid ground on what Jaskier hoped was the end of the swamp. There was at least one other battle scene that they had passed. Jaskier wondered what Geralt and Yennefer had been fighting that had required them to burn the trees down. Some kind of terrible bird? And was Yennefer that bad at aiming? Surely not, though he'd heard she was usually aiming at armies rather than individuals, so perhaps accuracy was not her best attribute.

He camped on a rocky ledge, a fifteen-minute climb up the rising terrain. There was a tree that he could fasten Roach's rope to...he didn't trust her not to wander. She seemed quite keen on climbing. Maybe she thought Geralt could be found at the top of the mountain.

Two Crowns. It had a noble name. Too bad he wouldn't be able to work it into a song; Geralt had been quite adamant at the need for secrecy. Perhaps if he just changed the names. He stared up at the distant silhouettes. The Fists of the Gods, yes, that was it. Nobody would recognize the reference and the dramatic appeal would be enhanced. The fire crackled and snapped. Roach was munching contentedly from a nose-bag of oats.

The horse’s eagerness was a good sign. Horses were excellent at finding their way to where they wanted to be, Jaskier had found. And Geralt and his horse were unusually close, in a purely platonic sense, of course. Maybe Roach was sensing something that Jaskier did not know; that Geralt was safe and waiting for him farther up the mountain.

With the sorceress.

 _She'll break your heart again Geralt_ , Jaskier thought. _But maybe this time you'll let me help you pick up the pieces_.

He polished off the last of his dinner and found a convenient stream to scrub out his pots in. What was up there on the mountain? It had to do with dragons, and involved secrets, of that he was quite certain. The dragon’s secrets? Someone else’s? Hard to guess without facts.

Roach nickered contentedly as he removed her feed bag. He spread out his furs next to the fire and carefully banked it. He hoped he wouldn't run into any trouble on the way; with only one dagger he'd be easy prey to the sort of bandits that would inhabit such a forsaken wilderness. Though he could usually sing his way out of such a predicament; the isolated were usually starved for contact with the outside world.

Perhaps that was what he was wanted for, up on the mountain top. Cheering up was something he was good at. The thought gave him some comfort as he tried to find a comfortable spot on the hard ground. Eventually he slept.


	2. The Last Furlough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has finally made it to his destination. Not that he has any idea where it is. Or what he's going to find when he gets there.

There was frost on the ground in the morning. Jasper awoke shivering, out of a dream in which Gerald was underground, dirt spilling into his mouth and nose, being pulled down and down and down, knowing that he would never make it back out...

The morning cup of hot brew burned his mouth but couldn't touch the ice in his heart. _I'm useless_. The one time in his life when Geralt actually needed someone to help him and he was utterly useless.

He pulled himself onto Roach and let the horse have her head. They climbed for hours. It would have been beautiful if Jasper’s stomach wasn't knotted so tightly that he felt he would vomit of it. Roach’s muscles worked like pistons. The wind came screaming down the passes like a vengeful ghost. Small furry animals flattened themselves on rocks and watched curiously as he passed.

Roach stopped. Jasper looked up, shading his eyes. The sun was directly overhead. It looked like he was almost at the summit, only one last, nearly vertical climb. Roach gave him an evil look. Maybe he was supposed to get down and lead her. It did look like a dangerous bit of a climb. However, Jasper didn't trust her not to run off, so he just nudged her ribs and clutched at her mane as she lunged up the slope. The cold air bit into his lungs.

There was a last push, Roach’s legs straining to get herself and Jasper up to what looked like a plateau of some sort.

And then they were up. A broad, flat plain stretched out, with a pond on one side and the hill on the other. A very large black stallion threw his head up and came charging towards Jaskier.

Dear God, I hope she's not in heat... Jaskier hastily abandoned Roach to her fate and backed away.

But the stallion merely touched noses with Roach, who reached over and bit him on the neck. Good friends, obviously.

Probably Yennefer’s. It seemed like the sort of impressive monster the sorceress would ride, just for the looks. And the size of it matched the hoofprints that he had seen in the swamp, mingled with Roach’s. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Geralt! Borch!” Fates grant that he wouldn’t run into Yennefer before he found Borch or Geralt. Especially Geralt.

 _Please be here. Please be safe_.

A portal rippled into view and Yennefer stepped through. Good fortune was spitting in his eye today.

_I have to convince her to help. No matter what, I’ll promise her anything._

She stood before the portal, hands on hips, the satin of her dress whipping in the wind and her hair spreading out like a black veil. The arrogance of the woman. Oh, certainly, she was beautiful. And powerful. And Geralt loved her. But aside from that, what had she to recommend her?

Jaskier trudged forward. Warm air billowed out as he approached the portal.

Yennefer crossed her arms. “So he managed to find you.” Her purple eyes bored into him, eerie and fey. He'd never met anyone with eyes like the sorceress’. “And he's got you on Roach. Quite the princely treatment.”

“Is Gerald here?” He didn't have time to exchange insults with the object of all his worst nightmares.

She frowned. “No. He was supposed to be looking for you.”

Jaskier’s legs gave way and he dropped to the grass. He hadn’t realized how far his fantasy had gone, at what point hope had changed to delusion. Shattered, now. Geralt was still trapped. “He was taken by a witch. She said ‘tell her that if she wants her lover back, she’ll have to come to me’.” Jaskier’s voice rose. “What have you gotten him involved in? Is this some rival of yours? Someone you scored points off, come to even the score?”

Jennifer scowled. “I don't fight with witches. The mother-born I have no quarrel with, and the others I stay away from. What you said makes no sense. Are you sure you heard it right?”

“Yes.” _You crazy bitch_. “I'm a bard. We remember things. She left this for you.” He tossed the item the witch had left onto the ground between them. It was an odd-looking thing, made of seashells hung on thread, shaped like a bracelet.

Yennefer glanced at it but didn’t pick it up. “A witch.” She turned away from him, pacing across the grass. She turned. Came back. “She must be one of the dark ones. But Gerald’s sword...did he lose his sword again...of course he did...”

It was a facet of Yennefer he had never seen before. Normally her intensity was blinding. But now, uncertainty broke the rhythm of her steps.

“Gerald was never able to touch her with the sword,” he told her. “The branches had him wrapped up before she appeared. They ripped his silver sword away.”

“But she shouldn't have been able to do that.” Anger reared up in her like a snake about to strike and Jasper could see the driven, insane sorceress that he remembered from before.

He took a step backward. Just in case.

“A black witch is a changed creature. The branches should not have been able to touch his sword. You are certain? They wrapped around his sword?”

“Around the hilt.”

“This isn't good. Come in. I will need to hear the details. All of them, from the moment you and Gerald came face-to-face Aedirn.”

The portal hummed. As it often did, the power of the sorceress made him feel insignificant. With a flick of her fingers she could span continents. The journey that he made, sweating and dragging his sorry ass over trail and through bog, she could have made in a finger snap.

Jaskier grabbed the bracelet, scrambled to his feet and stepped inside.

* * *

It was obviously the sorceress’s private quarters. Her colors and her scent permeated the place. A royal blue coverlet on a decadently large bed. A private area behind a folded screen the height of a man. Ornately sculpted lamps glowing from behind amber tinted glass. Thick rugs carpeting the stone floors. The canopy around her bed had a hidden light source making it seem like sunlight was pouring through the delicate fabric.

There was a heavy door set into the stone wall. Jaskier wondered where it led to. Were they in someone's castle? If so, in what country? The air was cold and thin; maybe they were still on the mountain?

“Have a seat.” Yennefer indicated a chair leaning against a round, lacquered table. Beautiful work, from the Cintra coast, Jaskier guessed. He sat down, and it didn't surprise him that the sorceress didn't follow suit.

She liked to keep all the advantages.

Was it going to be a battle between them? Did she know what had happened to Gerald, and was there something she would demand of him for her help?

What price was he willing to pay to get Gerald back?

 _Anything_.

It shouldn't be like that anymore. He wasn't responsible for Gerald. _Look inside,_ his inner sense chided him _See the truth for what it is_. The scent of myrrh invaded his memories, and the lazy, arhythmic beat of the tiny copper pipes on leather. _You've taken him back inside. Accept that. Embrace it. Do not let yourself be caught off-guard by your own heart_.

“Start at the beginning. When I last saw him, he was in the Mahakam mountains, looking for you. Where did he find you?”

Yennefer seemed oddly normal. Jasper wondered if Borch had done something to change her at some point, as he had to Jasper. Telling her to look inside herself. What could she possibly seen have seen inside herself that made her normal? It boggled the mind. “Vengenberg. I was...err...playing for the king.”

“Who's in, now?”

“Gambolin the Second. Rather a shit.”

“They're all shits. Demavend was the last decent one.”

“I suppose...look, can we just skip ahead to the important part? Where a witch drags Gerald under the earth with a bunch of living tree branches and he didn't come up.”

“Under the earth? That makes no sense. How long did you wait?”

“Till sunset. It was noon when she took him.”

This time, he saw a look of real fear ripple across her face. _Fuck me. Maybe she actually cares about him_.

“Tell me.” She yanked a chair over to the table and sat in it. “Every detail. Quickly.”

* * *

She fed him a sweet wine from the vineyards of Nazair when his voice started to stick. It didn't take long, the air up in the mountains was as dry as a bone. He showed her the trinket.

“Put it on the table.” She examined it closely for a while, careful not to touch it. Then she got up and went to one of the cupboards, returning with a small box with a hinged lid. “There’s a powder inside. Sprinkle a little on the bracelet.”

He did as she instructed, hoping it wasn’t going to eat his fingers to the bone or turn him into something unnatural.

“I thought so. It’s a twinweave,” she told him. “Normally, these are crafted by witches to bind two lovers together so they can always find each other. Nice if you can afford it. Made from bivalves, seashells, carefully pried apart, with matching shells in each trinket.”

“Do they have to be for specific people, or just anyone?” he asked.

“Works for anyone,” she answered him absently, her violet eyes focused in thought.

Well she hadn't snapped his head off yet. Might as well keep going. “Is there anything else they're used for?”

“Ambush. As soon as I put it on, she'll know where I am. She's got the other one.”

“When were you going to warn me about this?”

Her mouth twisted wryly. “It won’t bother about you. She’s expecting you to be fiddling with it. And there’s nothing you can do. It's all magical defenses, once contact is made. I'll open a portal, she'll send something through. Then it will be a battle. Her skill against mine. Just like Soddem...”

“Soddem? Were you there?” Had the sorceress been working for Foltest?

“Do you ever stop chattering?” she snapped.

That was the Yennefer he remembered. It was curiously reassuring. This was the insanely powerful Yennefer of Vengerberg. Not a pale imitation with normal eyes. “Sorry,” he said meekly.

It was her turn to stare at him in open suspicion. Then her suspicion turned to a speculative look. “Borch was right. You have changed. Matured. I suspect you'll have some interesting stories to tell. But not now. Make yourself at home, within reason. I need to consult with the dragon.”

She rose and casually summoned a portal.

How many of those does she have in her? Jaskier wondered. He took a rosy apple from the bowl in the table and bit into it as Yennefer walked through the portal.

* * *

She returned approximately ten minutes later, face like an exotic storm cloud. “Fucking Borch is gone.” She gestured and a pillow exploded in a cloud of black feathers. “Fucking don’t-get-involved, manipulative bastard...”

 _He got involved with me_ , Jaskier wanted to tell her but, but that seemed like an unkind and slightly suicidal thing to bring up. Besides, now that he thought about it, the dragon hadn't. He just dropped Jaskier off in Zerrikania and left.

She began to pace back and forth over a large rug with long white fur. “I'll put up the portal, she'll throw something through right away. She might have an army. If she's being paid by someone else. Maybe Nilfgaard? I don't see how it could be personal. I don't recognize her from the description, and I can't think of any witch who has a grudge against me.”

“Might it be a sorceress? Masquerading as a witch?” Jaskier suggested hesitantly. “It's not like I'd know the difference.”

“No. The roots...that was pure witch. Unless...did they look like dead roots that were being manipulated by force magics?”

“The ones near the end smelled dead. But the others were living roots. They grew.” Jaskier shuddered at the memory of Gerald's tightly wrapped body. “Can we hurry? Please. She said he wouldn't last long.”

“She either means to kill him or use him as bait. If he’s bait, she won't let him die. If she's going to kill him, he's already dead.” Yennefer poured herself a goblet of amber fluid and sipped it. “The only question is whether she wants to kill or capture me.”

Jaskier was irritated by her indifference. The only question she cared about had to do with her own survival. “Does it really matter? I mean, from a strategic point of view,” he hastened to add at her look.

“Not really,” she admitted. “Whether it kills you or put you to sleep, it's all the same. You lose.”

“And you never lose.” Gerald had told Jasper that often enough, back in the old days. He'd said it with such an admiring tone that it used to set Jasper's teeth on edge. _She either wins or she dies trying. There's no compromise in her._

There was much to be said for compromise. Not that he'd ever been able to convince Geralt of that. Nor to value any other of Jasper's “soft skills”.

Yennefer was silent. She hadn't answered his question. Then her face grew hard. “Not this time,” she said. “Whoever this bitch is, she has no idea how far I will go. But she's about to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer and Jaskier, forced to work together. It's a little rocky at first.
> 
> Next up, Yennefer's POV, but don't worry, Jaskier will not be pushed into the background and he has a lovely comfort scene with Geralt coming up eventually. But first comes the hurt...


End file.
